


What's It Gonna Be?

by aspermoth



Category: Total Nonstop Action Wrestling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Assault, Blood, Buried Alive, Despair, Experimental Style, Explicit Language, Future Tense, Gen, POV Second Person, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Present Tense, Self-Hatred, Self-Mutilation, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, Violence, Vomiting, the narrator is an asshole
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 10:16:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2648351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspermoth/pseuds/aspermoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So Rhino. You just turned on EV2.0, screwed everything up and got sacked by Eric Bischoff. Well done, you. And now you're standing alone on a street in Orlando and you've got to decide where you're going next.</p><p>So what's it gonna be?</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's It Gonna Be?

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains a lot of potentially triggering content, so please be careful. I think most of the triggers are listed in the tags, but I would rather you didn't read and kept yourself safe than got triggered. Stay safe. Also, I don't know if Terry Gerin is divorced or not in real life, but for some reason, I see the character Rhino as being divorced. Call it fanon. I hope you enjoy the fic.

What's it gonna be, Rhino?

You've been wandering for a while. It was still light when security threw you out, but twilight has sunk in and it's getting dark. It has to be more than an hour, but you're still shell-shocked, aren't you?

It's not every day that you ruin your life.

Of course Bischoff didn't renew your contract. You knew he wouldn't. Not even if you had beaten Tommy and Rob. It was a Hail Mary pass. A desperate shot in the dark.

And you didn't hit the target. Not even close.

Goodbye dignity. Goodbye pride. Goodbye all the friends you've known and loved for years.

And for what?

Nothing.

Just a bloody forehead and your own thoughts, alone on a dark Orlando street.

Your stomach's twisting and turning with anger. Your heart's aching with despair. But the rest of you is just tired, isn't it?

You've got to make a decision. What's it gonna be?

There's a dive bar on this intersection. But of course you knew that. An alcoholic knows where to find his fix. And recovery is the journey that never ends, isn't it?

There's always that temptation.

You can feel it now in your pulse, throbbing in time with the shitty music. That need. That voice that begs you to look for salvation in the bottom of a bottle.

Just give up. Your life's already over. What have you got left to lose?

Unless you want justice.

Getting drunk won't help you get even. And you want Bischoff to pay for what he did, don't you?

It's his fault. It's your fault. It's nobody's fault. God you're tired, aren't you?

You could just go back to the hotel. Fly out tomorrow. Start again alone from the beginning. You can get by. You can survive.

The door of the dive bar opens, throws light into the darkness, closes again.

You've got to make a decision.

So what's it gonna be?

Let's say you go in.

You'll push open the door and the thick smell of alcohol and regret will wrap itself around you like a lover's arms.

You'll make your way up to the bar. Catch the barman's eye. You know his kind. The sort who'll keep on giving you drinks well beyond the point he should stop.

You'll order your first drink. Sip it slowly. Savour the old familiar taste. You'll know it's just the start, that you can't stop until you can't move and black out.

You'll order another drink.

And the next morning, you'll wake up in a hotel bathroom you don't recognise with a busted lip and broken skin and a thumping hangover headache.

You won't remember what happened in between that first drink and opening your eyes again. Only bits and pieces. Fragments of lost time.

_Shot glasses. The barman's face, his mouth moving out of sync with his words, "Dude, I'm really gonna have to cut you off."_

You'll close your eyes. Try to concentrate.

_Another seedier bar. More glasses. A bouncer with a bald head covered in tattoos getting in your space. A dull thud and the taste of blood in your mouth, but no pain._

How did you get here?

_Throwing punches. Throwing bottles. Throwing a barstool. Getting thrown into an alley full of broken glass and still not feeling the pain. Stumbling away. Then nothing._

You just won't know.

But that's where you'll be. Lying on a grimy motel bathroom floor. Your lip and knuckles split and scabbed and your palms full of broken glass.

You'll pull yourself off the floor and turn on the faucets, rinsing your hands, watching the slivers of glass swirl down the drain. The cuts won't bleed, but they will sting.

No broken bones. No permanent damage.

But the shame. That'll be something else entirely.

You'll look at yourself in the mirror. See the sallow skin. The sunken, shadowed eyes. The five o'clock shadow. The scab on your lip.

The face of a man who lost control again. The face of a man who relapsed. The face of a man who let alcohol take hold of his mind and his soul, who forgot all the promises he made, who let his weakness crush him.

You'll all but see your thoughts floating across your reflection's face.

_Traitor. Weak. Worthless. Alone._

And then the killer.

_What would your daughter think of her daddy now?_

You won't plan to throw the punch. It'll just happen, your hand and arm moving like a reflex. The glass will shatter beneath your fist, re-opening the wounds on your knuckles and gouging fresh marks in the untouched skin.

This time, you'll feel the pain.

The blood will be that familiar red you've seen running down your face so many times before. It will run down both sides of your hand and _drip, drip, drip_ onto the glass in the sink.

Blood. First blood.

You're used to it. But the sight, the smell and the pain – they'll hit you like a fist to the gut. Your stomach will twist and lurch.

You'll throw yourself towards the toilet and puke. You'll throw up until your stomach's empty, until there's nothing but bile and burning.

You know this situation. You've been here before.

And that'll trigger it. Another memory rising from last night like a floating corpse, unbidden and unwelcome.

_Sitting on a stained motel bed, trying to ignore the room spinning. Cell phone in hand. Calling everyone – anyone – you once called your friend. Begging Rob to pick up. Begging Tommy to talk to you. But nobody's home. Voicemail every time._

Rob and Tommy used to say that if you ever needed them, they were there. They support your sobriety.

But you'll know better. You'll know where you truly stand.

That they don't want you. That they don't _need_ you.

That you're nothing but a pathetic, hungover fuck-up with his head in a motel toilet.

You're there, aren't you? In your mind, you're kneeling there right now.

You can see the cracked porcelain and the burgundy red on your skin. Taste the acidity of the vomit. Hear the blood dripping from your hand to the floor. Can you feel it? Warm between your fingers. Sharp with pain at the knuckles.

You're _there_.

Get up. Flush the evidence and go back to the sink.

Light sparkling on the broken glass. A mix of tiny splinters and larger pieces.

Look at the glass. Look at your bleeding hand. Look at your wrists.

It'd be easy. You're used to pain. And it wouldn't hurt for long.

Are you shaking?

Don't. This won't be hard.

Pick up the glass. Any piece bigger than a quarter.

It'll be so easy.

Just do it.

Do it.

 _Do it_.

And maybe you'll hear your cell ring from the other room. You won't believe it for a moment but you'll stop and drop the glass.

And when you stumble to the bed, you'll see a missed call and a voicemail from Tommy.

(Not Rob. Rob forgives slowly. Tommy forgives in a heartbeat.)

You'll listen.

"Hey, it's me. I got your messages and, uh. Call me back, okay? It sounds like you need it."

Maybe you'll call him back. Maybe you'll stare at your cell until he calls again. Maybe you'll talk and you'll cry and you'll confess that you can't hold it together any more and you need his help.

_Please, Tommy. Help me._

But maybe your cell won't ring at all.

You'll take that glass. Press it into your wrist until the skin splits and keep pushing. Into the meat and gristle. Pulling down your arm towards your elbow.

Can you feel it? Can you feel that glass in your wrist? Keep cutting. _Keep cutting_. As far down as you can.

Now the other. Do it.

Do it.

 _Do it_.

Just fucking _do_ it.

Can you feel it? Can you smell it? Everything a red haze, everything the haze of pain in your arms, and maybe your fingertips have gone numb from the nerve damage but you wouldn't know because your mind is full of screaming and the weight of all the world has fallen on your head, and the glass slips from your fingers and you drop to your knees on the filthy bathroom floor.

Sit back and lean your head against the wall.

Close your eyes.

And wait.

Let it end.

Just let it _end_.

Now stop.

This is hypothetical. Come back to reality.

You're not in a motel bathroom. You're standing in the street outside the dive bar on a dark Orlando night.

You've got to make a decision, Rhino.

So what's it gonna be?

We'll try this again. Take two. From the top.

The bar door opens. Light spills out. It closes. Darkness.

You won't got in. Not this time. Your despair event horizon lies between you and that door and you're not ready to cross it yet.

You turn your back, lift your head up, and walk away. You know where the edge of that cliff is and you want nothing to do with it. But there's another one, isn't there? And it's opening up before your feet.

The anger sits beneath your skin, dormant, hibernating, but you can feel it stir every time you think his name.

Eric Bischoff.

Eric. fucking. Bischoff.

He's the one who turned your friends against each other. He's the one who hung the sword above your head. He's the one who cut the rope and let it fall.

A rat always returns to its hole. You know where his house is in Wyoming. And you can wait. You're patient.

But you heard someone say once that anyone who goes on a journey for vengeance should dig two graves: one for his enemy, and one for himself.

There's a shovel in your hands. It's your choice. Go big or go home.

So what's it gonna be?

Let's say you pick revenge.

Forget about your stuff back at the hotel. You won't need it where you're going. You'll get your cell out of your pocket and call for a cab to the airport.

There won't be any flights until after five in the morning, and all the good seats are sold. But you've slept in worse places than Orlando International. And you can cope with a few more hours of discomfort. You'll have a purpose. You'll have a goal.

At check-out time the following morning, the staff at your hotel will bust down the door and find nobody home. They won't find anything worth taking in your bags. Instead, they'll throw your stuff in the dumpster out the back and black-list you for not paying.

It doesn't matter. You won't be going back.

Orlando to Atlanta. Atlanta to Salt Lake City. You'll charge yourself up on coffee and Red Bull until you're twitching like a finger on the trigger of a gun.

But you won't be the finger. You'll be the bullet.

It'll take more than nine hours, but eventually, you'll land in Cody.

Orlando has always felt wrong to you. Too humid, and too warm, even in winter. But Wyoming will feel more like Michigan, and Cody will be cold and sharp like Detroit. You'll feel at home here.

You won't have a lot of money left after the plane tickets and hiring a car, but nothing costs that much at Walmart.

Like a coat.

Or duct tape.

Or a knife.

You won't buy it all at once, but over a few days. And you'll make sure to pick a different cashier every time. You won't want anybody connecting the dots until it's too late.

You'll stake out Bischoff's home, get to know every inch of the inside from the outside. You'll sleep in the car, even when the temperature drops below freezing and you can't feel your fingertips. You'll live off the dollar menu at McDonald's until you hate the taste.

But you won't mind. It'll be for the cause.

Maybe they'll realise you've disappeared. Maybe Tommy will try to call you. You won't answer. He'd only try to talk you out of this, and that's the last thing you'll want.

(Rob won't call. He doesn't forgive easily. But Tommy might.)

Or maybe no-one will care that you've dropped off the face of the Earth. Radio silence.

Living like a ghost.

Two days later, Eric Bischoff will come home.

He won't stay long. Just a whirlwind visit to check that this house is okay before moving on to another and then back to Orlando for the next episode of Impact. But all you'll need is one night.

The temperature will drop like a stone. The sky will burn then darken to a night that sparkles with stars like broken glass in a motel sink.

You'll get out of the car and make your way to the back door.

Bischoff's house is big and out of the way. Nobody's going to disturb you. You'll have all the time in the world.

You'll reach out. Knock three times.

_Come. On. Out._

There will be a pause. Bischoff won't be expecting anyone, let alone you, and especially not out the back. Maybe he'll think it's the wind, or a wild animal.

Can you see yourself there? Your breath misting in front of your lips, duct tape in your pocket, your fingers wrapped tight around the handle of the knife you hid in your coat, listening, watching.

Knock again.

_Come. On. Out._

Footsteps. Draw back out of sight and wait. The door opens, cautious, ever so cautious, and a head appears in the crack.

Knock on the wall. Keep his attention. You want him to come outside and play.

_Come. On. Out._

You thought this sort of shit didn't work in real life before. That it was something that happened in dumb horror movies. But it turns out that real life is sometimes stupider than fiction.

Bischoff pushes the door open. Golden light spills out onto the ground and leaves everything around it tinged with blue.

He walks towards you. One step. Two. Looking around for the source of the noise.

You could back out now. If you stay still and silent, he won't see you. He'll decide it was a racoon or a stray dog and go back inside.

Maybe you'll do that. Give up on this idiotic idea of revenge. What were you thinking?

You'll wait until he's gone and the lights go out. Then you'll go back to your car and you'll drive back to the airport to drop it off.

Maybe you'll book a flight home. Maybe you'll start walking, no aim in mind, just walking until your feet bleed and you don't know where you are and the whole world is left behind.

But maybe you won't.

Maybe you'll stick to the plan.

Bischoff will take another step outside his door and you'll do what you've been waiting to do ever since he fired you.

Standing behind him, you'll pull the knife out of your coat, take a step forward, and put it to his throat.

He'll go still. Very, very still. But to his credit, he won't panic. Not yet.

"I have money," he'll say. "I can pay you if you let me go. Nobody has to know."

Just like Eric fucking Bischoff. Thinks money can get him anywhere, anything, anyone. But you won't be bought. Not this time.

You'll snarl that you don't want his filthy money and he'll recognise your voice. He'll laugh.

"Rhino? Are you serious?"

But you'll make him stop laughing when you press the knife harder against his skin. He'll start breathing fast and shallow, a bead of sweat trickling down the side of his face.

If you're lucky, he'll start begging. Promise you anything you want if you don't hurt him. But maybe he'll value his pride more than his life.

Either way, you won't cut his throat.

You're a fuck-up, a loser and a fool, but you're not a cold-blooded killer and you never will be.

You want him scared. As scared as you are as you stand with the vast, unfathomable chasm of the future opened up before your feet.

Inspiration will strike like lightning. You'll remember the saying again: he who goes on a journey of vengeance should dig two graves.

You'll only be digging one.

It won't be hard to knock Bischoff unconscious. Chokes may not be your main thing, but you're a wrestler. You've seen and felt enough. You'll improvise.

When Bischoff is out for the count, you'll tape up his wrists and ankles first – the last thing you'll want is for him to get away now – before putting a strip of tape over his mouth. Then you'll leave him on the ground as you walk into his house.

A beautiful house. An expensive house. A house much nicer than any you've ever had or ever will.

You'll walk into his kitchen. Clean white tiles, marble surfaces, curtained windows. For a few moments, the sheer luxury will make you feel sick. You'll think of pulling down those curtains, wrapping them around his neck and pulling until the capillaries burst in his eyes and he chokes.

But you won't. You'll keep walking through and into his indoor garage.

There are always garden tools.

There's always a shovel.

You'll carry it back out. Step over his motionless body. Maybe you'll take a moment to stare down at him.

What kind of man is he? A man who owns so much and gives so little. A man with children but no compassion for another father's pain. A sadistic, heartless son of a bitch.

You'll try to picture a mother loving him. All you'll be able to think is that she raised him as a joke.

But maybe you won't pause. You'll leave the shovel at his side and make your way back down to your rental car.

You'll have a few pieces of trash from the McDonald's in your back seat from the days when you didn't eat in the restaurant. You'll find a straw. Take it back to Bischoff.

Putting it in his mouth will be the easy part. It's taping it in place that'll be difficult. But you'll persevere, and you'll get it done.

He'll still be out like a light. You'll pick up the shovel and walk onto his lawn.

Will there be snow? Or just grass and earth?

It doesn't matter. You'll dig.

You've never been afraid of hard work, have you, Rhino? And this will be back-breaking. But you'll work like a man possessed, and you'll dig until your palms are blistering and your muscles burning and your spine sparking with pain like an electrical fault in a length of cable.

That's when you'll hear it. A strange, muffled sound.

Bischoff screaming through the duct tape.

You'll throw the shovel down, walk to his side and crouch by him. Press a finger to your lips.

 _Shh_...

You could carry him, but you won't. You'll drag him along the ground as he wriggles like the worm that he is. And you won't be gentle when you drop him into the hole you dug for him.

Can you see him lying there, eyes wide, face pale against the darkness of the dirt room you've made for him? Can you smell the heavy scent of broken turf? Feel the sting of the blisters on your palms? Hear those strangled screams?

Pick the shovel back up.

Bischoff's eyes plead with you, but you've got no forgiveness for him. He took your future. He took the food off your family's plate.

He deserves everything that's coming to him. So do it.

Do it.

 _Do it_.

You scrape up a shovel's worth of mud and tip it over Bischoff's feet. He tries to shake it off, but he can't break the tape on his legs.

Bit by bit, you bury him alive.

You leave the soil loose around him and the straw in his mouth uncovered. There's enough space for him to breathe. Or there should be. You don't care enough to check.

There's nothing for a headstone.

Bastards don't deserve them anyway.

Maybe you'll stay for a while and listen to Bischoff screaming. But you probably won't. It's more likely that what you've just done will hit you and you'll run. You'll get in the car, reverse out and start to drive.

Nowhere in particular. Just away.

Your cell will ring. Tommy Dreamer. Maybe it's his first call, or his fifth, or his fifteenth. It doesn't matter. This is the first one you'll answer.

"Where the hell have you been?"

It's complicated.

"... Rhino, what have you done?"

He doesn't want to know.

" _Terry_."

You'll tell him. And there'll be a moment of silence.

"Oh God. What have you done?"

Isn't that the million dollar question? You won't know how to answer. All you'll think of to say is that you're sorry. You never meant for any of this.

Tommy will start to say something. You'll hang up, cut him off mid-sentence, and when he tries to call back, you won't answer.

Driving. Just driving.

Can you see yourself in that rental car? It smells like something dead marinated in an ashtray and its interior is faded and cracked.

And you're driving. Nowhere in particular. Just away from where you've been and what you've done. You'll work out what to do about it being a rental later. Or maybe you won't. You don't know what to do next.

You need to get out of here. Away from Wyoming. Go south. Mexico, maybe. You can work down there. Send money home to your daughter. Escape whatever lawsuit Bischoff will want to bring against you.

It's cold outside. Will he survive the dirt room you've made for him?

 _What have you done_?

You know full well.

You dug yourself a grave right next to Eric Bischoff and now you're lying in it.

Dawn breaks. Thin strands of pink and gold stretch their way across the horizon. And you keep on driving because you've got nothing else.

It's fucking ridiculous, isn't it?

Laugh.

 _Laugh_.

Laugh at it all, at the man who buried Eric Bischoff alive, at the man who fucks up everything he says and does.

Fucking _laugh_.

And stop.

This is hypothetical too. You still haven't made your choice, Rhino. You're still on the streets of Orlando, wrapped in warm, cloying humidity, your cell phone in your hand.

You could make that call and go to the airport. You could turn around and walk straight into that bar.

You've got to make a decision. Third strike and you're out.

So what's it gonna be?

There's always another choice.

It won't be dramatic or cathartic or drive away that anger in your belly or the ache in your heart.

Call a cab, but go back to your hotel.

You'll spend a restless night there, and in the morning, you'll pack your stuff, pay your bill and fly back home to Detroit.

You won't be able to afford your apartment without your TNA wages, shitty as it already is. So you'll put in your notice. Get another place. Somewhere worse.

And the next time you see your ex when you visit your daughter, you won't say a thing. You won't want to see the pity in her eyes.

You'll go back to square one. Back on the indie scene. Banking on your time in the big leagues to get you some attention.

And it'll work for a while. But soon it'll become clear that you'll work for just about anyone who'll pay and the respect will start to dry up.

Backyard promotions. Garbage matches based around who can stay upright with a concussion the longest.

Can you see it? A ramshackle ring in the basement of some shitty club with slack ropes and a mat still stained from matches gone before.

The crowd boo you. Maybe they're TNA fans who still think you're a traitor. Or maybe they're just hungry for violence.

The stink of alcohol hangs heavy in the air. But then your opponent takes a cheese grater to your forehead and all you can smell is your own blood running down your face.

It's not much. But it's a living. And you're in it for the money now. Anything for your little girl.

Time will pass. Seasons will change. Holidays will come and go.

December 25th spent alone in your tiny new apartment, watching awful day-time television and eating ramen. Merry fucking Christmas to you.

New Year's Eve writhing in pain while drunk assholes throw red plastic cups at the ring.

And you'll wait for Tommy and Rob to call.

(Tommy more than Rob. You know what Rob can be like.)

But he won't. Not until you call and apologise first. And you'll be damned if you're going to do that.

You'll start to believe that they only cared about you when you were useful. When you were dumb muscle in the background, soaking up chair shots so they don't have to.

You'll start to believe that's all you are.

Three and a half years later, you'll get a call from a bratty Floridian rich kid calling himself Ethan Carter III.

He needs an enforcer. And he'll give you good money to do it. And how do you say no to that?

And once again, you'll stand across the ring from old friends. Bully and Devon. And Tommy. Always Tommy.

You'll go through the motions for a few months. Fight for the cocky little punk. Protect Dixie Carter even while you think that this is the woman so stupid she signed her own company away to Eric Bischoff. Let the booing of the crowd fade into the back of your mind.

At least the Impact crowd won't throw things.

And then it'll come to a head.

Dixie will go through a table. Not that you care either way, but you've got to pretend to be offended if nothing else. And you'll be standing in the ring with her irritating nephew and that tiny Brit who wears those ugly suits.

That's not when it'll hit you, though. Not yet.

And it won't be when Kurt Angle brings in the cops and has you all arrested and dragged out of the arena. Although that will bring back a few memories of nights in the drunk tank, won't it?

No. It'll get you later, when you're being held overnight in a cell with the two knuckleheads you can't seem to shake.

Can you see yourself there? Lying on a familiar hard bed in the dark. Staring up at the ceiling. Telling yourself it's not worth twenty-five to life to beat Ethan's head in against the wall no matter how much he keeps complaining about the bedding, the food, the cold and the fact that he's a Carter and his lawyer should have got you out already.

The Brit's quieter. Kid's probably scared out of his wits. You'd reassure him, but what the hell do you say? It'll get better?

It doesn't get better.

And that's when it hits you. Like a bottle thrown from ringside. Or a flash of inspiration.

You're sick of this.

Look at where working for the money has got you. Stuck in jail overnight with a whiny asshole who's never so much as shined his own shoes in his life.

Something has to change.

And it will.

You and Ethan will have a... disagreement, so to speak. You'll fight him. You'll lose. But you'll feel better for it. Like a weight's been lifted from your shoulders and you're yourself again.

You'll go on to beat the poor Brit and lose to Ethan again. But that doesn't matter. That's not what you'll be there for any more.

Leaving the ring after a losing effort to Ethan in a New York Street Fight. Although to give you credit, he cheated.

See yourself there. Feel it. Walking backstage under your own power as your body protests from the effort.

Look up.

You make eye contact with Tommy Dreamer.

Of course he's here. It's New York. Why wouldn't he be?

He smiles. Says hey. You smile back, even though you could swear that your entire body is trying to dislocate itself.

You can rebuild those bridges. You can fix what you broke. You can make almost four years of pain and indignity and suffering worth it.

Maybe. Or maybe that price is too high.

After all, this is still hypothetical. You haven't made up your mind yet.

You're still standing on a street in Orlando, and it's 2010, and you've just been fired. Your life hangs in tatters in your hands and your future lies in darkness before you.

It's crunch time.

You know the three different paths you could take. And now you've got to choose one.

Into the bar. Off to Wyoming. Or back home.

You need to decide.

So what's it gonna be, Rhino?

What's it gonna be?


End file.
